


Stuck

by Astarloa



Series: Adventures In Falling [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst and Humor, Gen, Loki Angst, Loki-centric, Yggdrasil - Freeform, norse mythology & legend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-02-03 18:10:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1753813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astarloa/pseuds/Astarloa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki’s fall comes to a temporary halt when he finds himself hanging from one of Yggdrasil’s roots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stuck

He woke suddenly, without warning, to find a scream trapped in his throat. He swallowed the sharp pieces of sound, lungs wheezing out one uneven breath and then another. Fear burnt a cold, invisible path along his neck and down his back; abandoned fate inked against skin, bright and dreadful.

_Who am I?_

He looked up, searching for a blue and gold sky, only to find pale, brittle roots twined above him, like a bower built from bruised shadows and splinters of butterfly bone. The frayed end of his cloak was twisted around one limb, leaving him hanging in space, as if from a thread, spinning slowly beneath it. 

Next he tried kicking out with his feet, searching for a ground that didn’t exist. When he risked looking down all he could see was an endless dark punctured by faint specks of light winking in and out of existence.

His vision swam, something close to despair pulling at his heart, beckoning him closer. He reached up with one arm and grabbed a handful of fabric, giving it an experimental tug. 

There was a dry, cracking sound.

And then, for an endless moment, he was falling again. 

Crazed, high-pitched laughter echoed, torn fingernails plucking at synapses, restless and wrong, only to fade into silence seconds later when he jerked to a stop. The roots above him moaned and shifted under his weight, before settling again.

 _It would seem that I am stuck_ , he thought, mouth twitching into a mirthless smile.

With a sharp breath he forced his eyes shut and focused his concentration inwards, trying to remember.

Inside his mind, he saw himself walking through an empty library, past endless bookshelves thick with dust. He tried calling out, but barely had the words left his lips before they were suffocated by heavy, oppressive air. He lied and told himself that he wasn’t disappointed when nothing answered.

_They’re here, because they must be. I just have to find them._

He drew a finger along one of the shelves, exposing dull grains of wood beneath the grime - _I am here_ \- and then set off, footsteps brisk and determined.

After what seemed like hours he stumbled to stop, dismayed to find himself back at the beginning, staring at the same finger-marked shelf. His eyes narrowed. He refused to concede, even to himself, that his memories may be beyond reach and forever lost.

 _Very well, then_ , he decided, with an upwards tilt of his chin. _I’ll let them come to me._

So, he stood still and waited. 

His memories proved cruel with their affections. They crept slowly from the shadows, brushing against him, damaged things desperate for comfort, only to start struggling and flit away again when he tried to hold them close. 

They scattered and fled when four feathered stags appeared in the distance, ragged sides heaving as they thundered down the corridor towards him, sending up clouds of dust. Their hoofbeats made the floor shake. He reached out, blindly, as the beasts ran past him and plucked one of the feathers free. He closed his eyes and placed its tip - sticky with blood - against his lips, weaving loops of intent around it, seeking to learn all of the secrets he’d forgotten.

_I am…_

His eyes flew open.

“I am Loki,” he said, panting slightly, the words slippery and unfamiliar against his tongue. He repeated them, again and again, desperate to stitch their meaning in place. “I am Loki.”

*

Time shifted and stretched as he hung there, hours and days creating a kaleidoscope of indefinite moments. Tired, but unable to sleep, Loki kept himself occupied by trying to untangle the knotted maze of his magic, coaxing its unwilling threads back into becoming.

The silence was broken by a faint, scuttling noise.

He froze, listening, as the sound grew closer, small vibrations travelling through the roots and along the tattered fabric of his cloak, onto his skin. His hands flexed, curling into tight, hopeless fists when his magic refused to co-operate, still little more than a sluggish presence in the back of his mind. He tilted his head in the direction of the noise and waited, eyes scanning the shadows, watching for any movement. 

Loki blinked, heart slowing, as a small creature appeared. It waddled along one of the roots towards him, before stopping a few feet away and sinking down into a crouch.

They stared at each other.

“And what manner of being might you be?” Loki asked, eventually.

“Blurp,” said the creature.

Loki wrinkled his nose, uncertain about whether the creature was incapable of speech, or perhaps merely suffering from chronic indigestion. He studied it carefully. It was size of a small child, with mottled, grey skin, and long spindly arms. A sparse fringe of straw-like hair grew along its brow, framing black, bulbous eyes. 

“Well, this is most entertaining,” Loki said, suddenly, with a too wide grin. He clapped his hands together. “In fact, it’s almost as much fun as watching Thor attempt mental arithmetic! How jealous he’ll be that I’ve made a new friend.”

The creature tilted its head to one side, like a bird with a dislocated neck, and continued staring. Then it shuffled closer and reached out a hand towards him. The tips of its fingers trailed over Loki’s hair, before wrenching several strands free, with a sharp tug.

“Ow!” Loki exclaimed. 

Rubbing his scalp, Loki watched as the creature inspected the hair carefully. It lifted the strands to its mouth, only to spit them out again moments later with a guttural, “Blaaah”. A tongue, blackened and thick with warts, swiped over what should have been lips, clearly trying to rid itself of the taste. 

The creature paused, coughed wetly, and then hacked out a gob of flem that landed with a wet, squelchy, thud on a nearby root. It poked at the mess with a long, crooked, finger.

“Charming,” Loki said. “Tell me, would you by any chance be related to a fellow named Volstagg? I can’t help but notice a certain resemblance.”

The creature ignored him in favour of rocking backwards and forwards, humming to itself in a strange, syncopated, rumble that broke off at random intervals only to twist around and become something different. 

In the fragments of sound Loki thought he could hear someone calling his name. 

He shifted uneasily, the movement causing him to spin counter clockwise in vague imitation of a circle, and then told himself it mattered not. The more people who spoke his name – said, cursed, cried, yelled, _screamed_ \- the less likely it was to become lost again. 

_I am Loki._

After a time the creature grew still and quiet. It continued staring at the clump of hair, clearly suspicious, before tying the strands around one wrist to form an impromptu bracelet. 

“Pretty,” it whispered, the syllables rubbing against each other like the bare branches of a tree. It cast another, speculative, glance at Loki’s hair and reached out a hand towards him. “Pretty man.”

“Stop that,” Loki snapped, with a sharp jerk of his head. “I have no desire to be encrusted with your disgusting fluids, or add baldness to my current predicament, well-shaped though my skull may be.” 

He waited for a moment and, when no response was forthcoming, risked looking up again, eyes narrowed in case they were next to be plucked from his person. 

His glare collided with a mouth full of pointy, yellowed teeth, lichen and what appeared to be the remains of iridescent beetles trapped in the uneven spaces between them. Puffs of damp breath ghosted across his face, carrying with them the smell decaying leaves and thick, soupy, mud. He was suddenly reminded of the poisonous mushrooms left to grow, untouched, deep in the forests he and Thor had played in as children.

“Pretty man,” the creature repeated, before averting its eyes in a gesture that Loki could only interpret as a rudimentary attempt at flirtation. 

By the Nine, but how was this his life.

“Yes, yes. All who gaze upon me are rendered witless by my beauty,” Loki said, impatiently. “It seems _you_ are particularly susceptible. Now cease your mindless babbling and find some means of pulling me upwards.” 

The creature only resumed its stroking, knobbled fingers twisting his hair into painful knots. 

Loki felt his muscles tighten in frustration, anger weaving an unsteady path beneath his skin. It bubbled up inside him, hot and caustic, building into a furious wave that swept away reason. With a cry of rage he reached up and grabbed at the cloak, pulling against it as hard as he could. 

And this time, when Loki started falling, he didn’t stop. 

The last thing he saw was the creature’s face peering down at him, followed by a mournful whisper of, “Pretty man.”


End file.
